The Paris Project

by Donna Gephart

  My heart sank like a stone. I hadn’t realized Georgia was helping Mom pay the bills. And it didn’t occur to me how much harder it would be without the money from Dad’s job and the extra cash he earned from repairing cars on weekends. I pictured the dark circles under Mom’s eyes and how she almost always smelled faintly of bleach, like it was her favorite kind of perfume. I wished Mom smelled like gardenias, her favorite flower. “Yeah, that’s terrible.”

  “Cleve?”

  “Uh-huh?” I rolled onto my side toward my sister.

  She turned over to face me and leaned on her elbow. “I’m real sorry Dad took your Paris money. I know how hard you worked for that. It stinks that he did that to you.”

  “Thanks, George. I’m sorry your college fund went to pay for his lawyer.”

  “Our college fund. I’m glad the money I earned from Weezie’s was in a separate account at the bank and nobody needed it.”

  “Yeah. That’s a real good thing.” But I got a pang in my chest because the money I earned from all those dog walks had been in the Eiffel Tower tin under my bed and was gone forever. At least I was building it back up again.

  “Hey, maybe I’ll be able to earn enough money to put in a college fund for you, Cleve. You know, when you’re ready for that.”

  My heart filled with love for my sister, because I knew she meant it. She’d work hard so I’d have money for school. She would do that for me, even if it meant she had to go without something herself. Like the way she’d paid for my ballet classes, even though I knew she needed that money for when she went to Vermont. “Georgia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for always having my back and looking out for me.”

  “Always.”

  Even though Dad was in jail, and I was pretty sure Declan had been keeping a big secret from me, I felt surprisingly good lying there in the magical glow of the moonlight with my big sister in the next bed and Mom and Miss Genevieve on the other side of the wall. It felt like everything would be okay.

  “Good night, Cleve.”

  “Night, George.”

  Locker Talk

  ON MONDAY MORNING DECLAN STRODE up to my locker with a hundred-watt smile. Even his pointy ears looked pink and happy.

  Is Declan keeping anything else from me? “Hi, Dec.”

  “Hey, Scout.” Declan pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand, his warm fingers touching mine. “For your Paris Project.”

  “My Paris Project?” Even though I hadn’t had the heart to work on it these past weeks, Declan hadn’t forgotten.

  I couldn’t keep from grinning as I unfolded the paper. It felt like unwrapping a birthday present. “Crepes!” I shouted, way too loud for our middle-school hallway.

  Jenna Finch and her gang of girl followers happened to be walking by, of course. She shot me a look of disgust, but even Jenna’s nasty face couldn’t ruin my good mood. I waited until she and her evil minions were gone.

  “That’ll be perfect,” I whispered to Declan.

  Dec shook his head at those girls. “Small-minded,” he muttered, which reminded me of my conversation with Georgia about her moving to Vermont. Then Declan focused on me, and his face brightened again. “I’m going to teach you how to make them. Savory ones and sweet ones.” Declan leaned on the lockers. “I didn’t forget, Scout.”

  I squeezed the paper to my heart. “You didn’t forget, Dec.”

  “Hey, I just said that.”

  I shoved him playfully on the shoulder, and he pretended to fall all over the row of lockers.

  Dec was back. He was going to teach me to make a French dish so I could accomplish the next item on my Paris Project list. He was still my friend.

  “Hey, Maguire!” Robert Graham barreled toward us, his football jersey tight across his chest. I couldn’t believe how big some of the eighth graders were. Graham got right in Declan’s face. I noticed that he had a good few inches on Declan and the beginnings of a mustache. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  Declan’s sweet smile melted away. He stepped toward Graham, shoving his chest out and standing tall. “Screw you!”

  Ms. Baran, the music teacher, walked by us. “Language, boys,” she said, as though it were Declan’s fault.

  As soon as Ms. Baran passed, I hissed, “Yeah, screw you, Graham!” I wanted to kick him hard in the shin but knew it would probably only hurt my foot, since my flimsy sneakers wouldn’t provide much cushion, and I wasn’t looking to get a broken toe.

  “Aw,” Graham said. “Isn’t that cute, Maguire? You need your little seventh-grade friend defending you.” He looked around, then gave Dec a vicious shove that knocked him backward into the lockers.

  Graham eyed Declan, as if he were completely disgusted by being so close to him. I thought Graham was going to spit on him, but instead he turned and stormed off.

  I hoped Declan hadn’t landed on one of the locks. That would have hurt his back like a son of a bee sting.

  “You okay?” I offered a hand, but Dec didn’t take it.

  He righted himself, looking like he might cry, but then his nostrils flared and his cheeks flamed a deep shade of pink; I thought he’d turn and punch one of the lockers. I knew we were in school, but I wanted Declan to shout about how horrible Graham was. I wanted him to humiliate Graham for what he’d just done.

  Anger boiled over inside me until my words exploded. “That guy’s a jerk!”

  Declan’s lips pressed together. He got so close to my face I smelled banana on his breath. In a fierce whisper, so different from the tone he’d used with me only moments earlier, he said, “There are tons of jerks, Cleveland, but I don’t need you defending me from them.”

  Dec was mad at me! “But—”

  “I need…” Declan shook his head. “I need you to accept me. Who I am. Who I care about. That’s it.”

  “I… I…”

  Declan walked away.

  I clutched the crepe recipe. I do accept you, Dec. Of course I do. You never gave me a chance to tell you as much because you never told me about that part of yourself! And I’ll do my best to accept Todd Baker, too. Of course I will. Even if his dad did something terrible to my dad. I’ll do that for you, Declan Maguire, because you’re my best friend.

  I squeezed the recipe in my fingers.

  Aren’t you?

  Telling the Truth

  AFTER WALKING MISS GENEVIEVE, Scarlett Bananas, Lucy, Trixie, and Colby (who was a sharp Shiba Inu that loved chasing squirrels), I cleaned up really good to wash away all the dog smells and headed over to Declan’s, hoping he’d be the only one home.

  “Scout!” Declan shouted when he opened the door.

  He had a jagged scratch on his left cheek, like someone had played a sick game of connect the dots with a red pen and Declan’s freckles.

  “Come in,” Dec said, as though nothing was wrong. “I’m starving but wanted to wait for you.”

  As soon as I stepped inside the trailer, I looked around to see if Todd was there.

  “My dad’s not here,” Dec said. “He’s teaching lessons at JAM over in Winter Beach.”

  “Oh,” I said, as though I’d actually been looking for Mr. Maguire. “Dec, what happened to your face?” I reached up to touch the scratch.

  He swatted my hand away. “It’s nothing. Let’s get started. Those crepes aren’t going to cook themselves.”

  I was hungry and eager to get started, but that scratch on Declan’s cheek bothered me. I remembered Graham shoving him this morning and guessed what It’s nothing actually meant. Had this been happening for a while, but I was only now aware of it? I felt guilty for not noticing, not helping, not understanding sooner. If I’d known earlier, I could have helped protect Dec. I felt bad thinking people had been harassing him and I hadn’t been there. I would want him to protect me if people were picking on me. He’d stuck up for me when Jenna started being mean at the beginning of sixth grade last year. But this morning Dec made it clear he didn’t want my help, so I tried not to
think about the scratch, who might have done it and why. “I’m so glad we’re going to make crepes, Dec. Classic French dish.”

  “Indeed it is.” Dec put on his toque—a real chef’s hat that used to be his mom’s; it had pictures of colorful cats all over it. He adjusted it so it rested on his head a little off center, the way, he told me, real chefs wore them.

  I pictured Declan making fancy dishes with other chefs-in-training at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. He’d probably be the only one with cats on his toque. I tugged on the sides of my beret. Both his toque and my beret felt perfectly French. Except for the wicked scratch on Dec’s cheek, things were just right.

  Declan scrubbed his hands at the kitchen sink and talked to me over his shoulder. “So, are we spending Halloween together, Scout?” He sounded defensive, like he was daring me to say no.

  Inside, I was happy-dancing. “That would be great.” I wanted to ask if it would be only the two of us, but I didn’t want to hear the answer. Dad always told me not to ask a question if I wasn’t ready to hear the answer. So I washed my hands and didn’t say another word, while letting the thought of another Halloween with Declan ping-pong around the joy centers in my brain.

  Declan put a canister of flour on the counter in front of us and took out a carton of eggs from the fridge. He also pulled out a slab of butter, a half gallon of milk, and some other ingredients. “Mind if Todd joins us?” Declan asked, as though he were asking me if I could pass him the whisk.

  Yes. Yes, I definitely mind. Halloween was always our thing, Declan Maguire, and you know that. “No,” I said mouse-quiet.

  “Okay. Good.” Declan let out a breath. “I wanted to show him how cool that neighborhood is. Would you believe he’s never gone out trick-or-treating? His family always has a big Halloween party at their house.”

  I thought of the times we’d gone to Todd’s family’s house for holiday parties and felt those familiar tendrils of anger slither around my belly.

  “He’s really excited about going with us.”

  You asked him before checking with me?

  “That’s great,” I said with zero enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, great,” he said with plenty of enthusiasm.

  I didn’t want to think about Todd’s family. “Can’t imagine not trick-or-treating for your whole life,” I said, to make conversation.

  “Right?” Declan swiped at his scratch and grimaced.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  He didn’t sound fine. He sounded irritated.

  Dec put a green plastic bowl in front of me. “Sift the flour, sugar, and salt into this.”

  When I dumped the flour into the sifter, a bunch got onto the counter. With ease, Declan added a bit more to make up for what I’d spilled. He always helped me and never made me feel bad that I wasn’t very good in the kitchen. “Okay, now what?” I was glad my hands were busy so I could focus on something other than what we’d been talking about.

  Declan put a bigger green plastic bowl in front of me. There wasn’t much room on the counter at this point, and I was afraid I’d knock something to the floor, like I’d done in the past.

  “You’re okay,” Dec said, as though he’d read my mind. “Now you need to beat the eggs and milk together.” He helped me crack the eggs, but I measured and poured the milk. “You’re supposed to use an electric mixer for this part, but we don’t have one, so beat it really fast with the whisk.”

  That part was fun. I pretended the egg-and-milk mixture was Todd’s head and beat it harder than I’d ever beaten anything in my life.

  “Slow down, Scout.” Declan laughed. “You’re a whisking maniac over there.”

  This made me smile. “You should have an electric mixer, Dec. All the famous chefs online have them.”

  He shrugged. “I should have a lot of things, Scout.”

  I had a feeling he was talking about more than just kitchen equipment. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about what happened with his mom. Or the bullies at school. But maybe I could use some of my dog-walking money to buy him an electric mixer.

  When all the ingredients were combined and Declan was heating the pan, he stopped and put his hand on my arm, the same way he’d touched Todd’s arm the other day. “You sure you don’t mind him joining us?”

  My heart pounded. “Declan, do you, um…”

  Declan cut a small chunk of butter and flipped it into the pan. It sizzled. “Do I what?”

  I didn’t want to mess anything up between us, but I had to know. My cheeks grew warm. “Do you like Todd?”

  Declan turned down the heat under the pan. “Yeah. Sure. He’s a good guy.”

  I noticed he didn’t look at me when he answered. He swirled the butter around the pan with a spatula.

  “I mean do you like him?”

  Declan stopped fussing. He stood tall and turned toward me. “Yes.”

  It hurt that he hadn’t told me sooner, hadn’t shared this part of himself sooner, but here he was putting all his trust in me. I understood that the words I said next mattered. A lot. So I took a slow breath and gathered my thoughts. “That’s really great, Declan.”

  Dec staggered backward, as though I’d pushed him. “Really, Scout? You… you’re totally good with this? Even though it’s Todd Baker?”

  I tilted my head at my best friend, at his too-big ears and smattering of freckles bisected with a nasty scratch. I looked at his warm brown eyes and his lips that had smiled a million smiles at me. Declan Maguire had the biggest heart of anyone I knew besides my mom and sister and every dog on the planet. He always understood what I was going through and cared about it. He had big dreams of his own but acted like my dreams were très importants. “Declan, I’m a hundred percent good with this. Why wouldn’t I be?” As long as you still have a place for me to be your best friend.

  “Why wouldn’t you be?” Declan shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s right, Scout. Of course. Why wouldn’t you be?” He glowed.

  I smiled.

  Declan adjusted his toque and squared his shoulders. “Well, okay then. Let’s make some crepes, mon amie.”

  The French words for “my friend” sounded so good, as if he knew we would always be friends. “Yes, let’s.”

  “Savory and sweet, Scout.”

  “Savory and sweet, Dec.”

  Without Georgia telling me, I knew I’d said the exact right thing to my friend when he most needed me to say it, and that made me feel wonderful.

  Merveilleux!

  Getting Closer

  MOM SWERVED INTO A PARKING spot at the video visitation center.

  “I wish I could bring Dad some of the crepes Declan and I made on Monday.”

  “He would have loved that, Cleveland. Those crepes were délicieuses. Did I say that right?”

  “You did, Mom. Good job.”

  Mom pulled down her visor so she could use the tiny mirror to put on lipstick. “Thanks. Guess that’s what happens when I pay attention to those French language CDs you play.” She patted my knee. “Don’t feel bad about not being able to give your dad the crepes, Cleveland. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to make them for him when he gets home.”

  When he gets home.

  I wiped the sweat off my upper lip. Seeing Dad on a video screen at a visitation center was one thing—we could pretend everything was okay for an hour—but him coming home forever would be something else entirely. There would be no pretending then. Would he stay away from the dog park? Would he be the dad he was before he loved to gamble? And how could we trust that he’d stay like that? How could I trust him at all?

  Mom patted the top of the steering wheel. “Thank you for getting us here, Miss Lola Lemon.” She treated cars the way I treated dogs—with lots of love and respect.

  I tapped the dashboard. “You’re a good old car.”

  “Shhh, Cleve. Don’t tell Miss Lola Lemon she’s old. She’s sensitive about her age.”

/>   I shook my head at Mom.

  “You ready?”

  Maybe? “One sec.” I fished inside the glove compartment and pulled out my list. It felt so good to check off the second item, to be moving forward with my big dream.

  Thank you, Declan Maguire, chef and friend extraordinaire!

  The Paris Project

  By Cleveland Rosebud Potts

  1. Take ballet lessons at Miss Delilah’s School of Dance and Fine Pottery (to acquire some culture).

  Ballet is not the answer… no matter what the question is!

  2. Learn to cook at least one French dish and eat at a French restaurant (to be prepared for the real thing). Crepes—savory and sweet! Délicieuses!

  3. Take in paintings by the French impressionists, like Claude Monet’s Water-Lily Pond, at an art museum so I can experience what good French art is (more culture!).

  4. Continue learning to speak French (will come in handy when moving to France and needing to find important places, like la salle de bains, so I can go oui oui—ha-ha!—French bathroom humor).

  5. Apply to the American School of Paris (must earn full scholarship to attend for eighth grade. You can do this, Cleveland!).

  6. Move to France! (Fini!)

  Good riddance, Sassafras, Florida!

  I had no idea how I’d do the other half of the second item on my list: “eat at a French restaurant.” They didn’t even have one in Winter Beach, but at least I could cook a French meal now. And I definitely didn’t know how I’d manage to do the third item on the list: go to a museum to see the French impressionists. But I was back to practicing along with the French language CDs from the library, which felt good because that was another step in the right direction.

  I knew I could make this happen if I tried hard enough. It was amazing how much more positive I felt about achieving my big goal with Declan’s support. It was so great knowing we were friends again.

  * * *

  Inside the visitation center, I glanced at the timer as Dad spent a full two minutes telling Mom how lovely she looked. I saw it made her happy by the way she sat taller but ducked her head. Then Dad seemed to notice I was there, sitting right next to Mom.